A Beautiful Collision
by Magery
Summary: Voldemort isn't a man. Ginny Weasley died in the Chamber. Twin divergences, though insignificant compared to the infinite majesty of the universe, spell a destiny irrevocably altered. Watch as Harry's life, the lives of those around him, and eventually the fate of Magical Britain herself are affected by his slowly-growing relationship with a female Tom Riddle.
1. Tom Marvolo Riddle

**To those of you reading this because you know me from my H/G fics, I'm... I'm sorry. Writing this is like watching a train-wreck - I don't know what the hell I'm doing, but it's too morbidly fascinating to stop.**

* * *

First and foremost, the italicized paragraphs in the first three scenes of this story are taken directly from the final chapters of _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets _(although obviously the pronouns have been modified). Anything else you recognize equally belongs to J.K Rowling (such as the contents of Hagrid's letter).

Anyway, yes, this is a fic that intends to eventually pair a female Riddle with Harry. The inspiration came from _Thunderstorm_ by T3t. I will be skimming through PoA and GoF as fast as I believe I can, since the action only really starts 'heating up' in OotP and beyond. That's about all I have to say, except for one thing I must make perfectly clear:

I believe in _competent_ characters. To the best of my ability, nobody will be intentionally holding the Idiot Ball, and every character will have more reasons than just 'the plot demands it' for their said, since I am writing mostly writing from Harry's POV (however, Lupin will appear next chapter, or the one after that, and so will Riddle), the only information you—the readers—can receive is information that Harry can physically know.

For instance, right now, by the end of this chapter, both Dumbledore and Riddle are scheming heavily, but neither of them are about to explain a word of their plans to Harry (or to anyone, really), so there's no way you can find about what they're doing until it happens. If you're particularly interested in something, feel free to ask me (in a review or a PM) about it - if I can answer, I will, even if all I can say is that you'll have to read and find out.

Now, on with the story!

* * *

_"Ginny, please wake up," Harry muttered desperately, shaking her. Ginny's head lolled hopelessly from side to side._

_"She won't wake," said a soft voice. Harry jumped and spun around on his knees._

_A tall, black-haired girl was leaning against the nearest pillar, watching. She was strangely blurred around the edges, as though Harry was looking at her through a misted window. But there was no mistaking her._

_"Tom - Tom Riddle_? But that's a boy's name!_"_

Riddle's lips curled up into an almost-savage grin as she nodded, halfway between mocking scorn and fury.

"My mother was delusional when she gave birth from me, dying from blood-loss and a broken heart. She thought I was a boy, and named me for my pathetic father." Her eyes never left Harry's face, and there was something ugly in them, a primal, predatory longing (had he been older, he would have called it lust, although not the kind he would hope to find in the eyes of a beautiful girl) focused directly at him.

_"What d'you mean, she won't wake?" Harry said desperately. "She's not - she's not -?"_

_"She's still alive," said Riddle. "But only just."_

_Harry stared at her. Tom Riddle had been at Hogwarts fifty years ago, yet here she stood, a weird, misty light shining about her, not a day older than sixteen._ Harry was still a little too young to appreciate Riddle in all her glory, but he knew what the older boys found attractive; she had all that and more, slender, curved and with a flawlessly pale face. But Harry doubted that he, personally, would ever consider her beautiful. There was something... wrong about her. Her smile was all sharp edges and pain, a slight madness flickering in the curl of her lips, and her eyes glinted with cruelty - where had the friendly Tom Riddle from the Diary gone?

_"Are you a ghost?" Harry said uncertainly_.

* * *

"_Why do you care how I escaped?" said Harry quietly. "Voldemort was after your time."_

_"Voldemort," said Riddle softly, "is my past, present and future, Harry Potter..."_

_She pulled Harry's wand from her pocket and began to trace it through the air, writing three shimmering words:_

_TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE_

_Then she waved the wand once, and the letters of her name re-arranged themselves:_

_I AM LORD VOLDEMORT_

"Lord? You're a girl!" Harry scoffed.

Riddle sneered, an ugly smile cutting across her face. "If the pathetic Muggles have changed rulers in the past fifty years, so is their Queen. And yet, she could be addressed as of the Duke of Normandy, the Lord of Mann or the Duke of Lancaster."

"You hate Muggles... and you're using them as an excuse as to why there's nothing wrong with your name's anagram?" Harry asked incredulously.

Riddle hissed—actually hissed, she was using Parsletongue even though she didn't say anything coherent—and sparks flew from the end of Harry's wand as her fingers tightened around it, but she didn't say anything in response. Even at sixteen, Tom Riddle was not used to anyone daring impertinence around her.

* * *

_"Get away, bird," said Riddle's voice suddenly. "Get away from him. I said get away!"_

_Harry raised his head. Riddle was pointing Harry's wand at Fawkes; there was a bang like a gun and Fawkes took flight again in a whirl of gold and scarlet._

_"Phoenix tears…" said Riddle quietly, staring at Harry's arm. "Of course… healing powers… I forgot…"_

_She looked into Harry's face. "But it makes no difference. In fact, I prefer it this way. Just you and me, Harry Potter… you and me…"_

_She raised the wand._

_Then, in a rush of wings, Fawkes soared back overhead and something fell into Harry's lap – the diary_.

_For a split second, both Harry and Riddle, wand still raised, stared at it. Then, without thinking, without considering, as though he had meant to do it all along, Harry seized the Basilisk fang on the floor next to him and plunged it straight into the heart of the book._

Or, at least, he would have, had Riddle not been just a little bit faster. The diary burst from Harry's grip, flying across the Chamber away from the two of them; he tried to snatch it back, but the pure force of Riddle's magic had overpowered even his Seeker reflexes. Riddle spun to face Fawkes, eyes blazing and wand moving in a complex pattern – just before she could finish whatever spell she was attempting to cast, Fawkes vanished in burst of flames.

Harry took advantage of her distraction to race after the Diary, not knowing exactly why but somehow understanding that it was _important_. Riddle—looking far more solid than she had even moments before—let him go, for some reason, and it was only when he glances over his shoulder to find some sort of demonic fire burning through where the Basilisk was that he realised what she was doing.

Because he also knew, somehow, that without the Basilisk fangs or the Sword of Gryffindor, the Diary was safe from destruction. He stumbled to a stop beside the Diary as he felt the blazing heat die away, falling to his knees in despair.

The room fell silent, and all Harry could hear was the sound of his own breathing and Ginny's – in the pursuit of the Diary, he'd run almost full circle trying to find it in the darkness before he finally discovered it.

The silence was shattered by Riddle's laughter, glorious and exultant; if he'd been older, the sound would have gone straight through him.

When she stopped laughing, Ginny wasn't breathing any more.

There was another flash of flames and the sound of thunder, and when Harry looked through the pillars, he saw Albus Dumbledore standing before Riddle, an expression of sheer, unadulterated fury on his face, blazing with magical power to dim a thousand candles. He looked like an angry god. Riddle's wand whipped down, a green jet speeding from her wand, but the very stone around Dumbledore came alive, rock rising from the floor as the Killing Curse impacted harmlessly against the Chamber's re-arranged floor.

The stones blew outwards, revealing Dumbledore behind them, and just as Riddle was about to cast another spell, the Headmaster struck – the transfigured stone hand behind her lunged forward, pinning her legs to the ground and trapping her arms before she could so much as react. Harry's wand flew out of her grip towards Dumbledore, who snatched it out of the air.

Harry slowly approached, barely focusing on the world around him as despair crashed over him like waves – he'd come down there to save Ron's little sister, to save someone part of the closest thing he'd had to a family, and he'd _failed. _Ginny was _dead_ and Ron's family was _broken_ and it was _all his fault_.

Dumbledore glanced at him, fury fading to sadness and pity.

"Fawkes, could you take Harry to the Hospital Wing?" he said to the phoenix, which flew over to Harry; without really knowing why, Harry grabbed a tailfeather. The last thing he saw before he vanished was Dumbledore turning back to Riddle, and the unmistakeable hints of fear slinking into her expression.

* * *

Later, much later, when Harry was still abed in the hospital wing, Ron and Hermione came to him – he'd passed out when he'd first arrived, and by the time he'd regained consciousness Hermione had been un-petrified and released.

"Ron…" Harry whispered, unable to look him in the eye, unable to study him and see the tear-tracks stained into his face in a morbid memorial to despair.

"There's a part of me that blames you, you know," Ron replied, voice breaking.

"Ron!" came Hermione's half-scandalized, half-shocked gasp, but Harry ignored her.

"You _should_," he replied, knowing it to be the truth. "If I'd been just a little faster, a little smarter, a little…"

He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. Silence fell, a dull, suffocating silence, sheer, raw emotion choking the air from their lungs. Harry was lost in thought, knowing what he had to say but still wishing he didn't have to say it, wishing he didn't have to lose the only friends he'd ever had. But he was certain it was the right thing to do, and so Gryffindor courage prevailed.

"I… I can't be friends with either of you, any more."

Ron's head snapped up from his shoes, and Hermione's head whipped from Harry to Ron and back to Harry, but before either of them could respond, Harry started to speak again.

"It's not only my fault Ginny died. It's my fault she was targeted. And it's my fault you were petrified, Hermione. If… if it wasn't for me, none of this would have happened. I'm a danger to everyone around me and I'm no—not good enough to save everyone. I _failed_."

Everything was quiet, like the world holding its breath, hovering on a precipice and unsure which way to turn. Then Ron let out a huge sigh; it sounded like he was releasing more than air, perhaps expelling two years of friendship as well.

"Goodbye, Harry," he said before turning and walking away. Hermione looked at him, stunned, then back to Harry, an imploring look on her face, but Harry only shook his head and looked resolutely in another direction.

"Go, Hermione. Being close to me will only bring you pain."

She hadn't left by the time he fell asleep, but she wasn't there when he woke up, and Harry hoped she wouldn't ever be again even as every part of him wished he didn't have to lose her—and Ron's—friendship. But if his parents died for him, who was he not to sacrifice his happiness so others could live on?

* * *

Later that day, Professor McGonagall came to the Hospital Wing and told Harry that Professor Dumbledore wanted to see him "at his earliest convenience." He looked around, and not seeing Madam Pomfrey anywhere, decided to release himself. He stumbled at first before righting his still-aching body, and made his way to the Headmaster's office. Rather than having to supply a password, the entry was already open and inviting - Dumbledore was clearly expecting him.

Taking the invitation, Harry made his way into Dumbledore's office, freezing in shock as he crested the last step – standing in one corner of the room, glaring out the window and shaking with fury, was Riddle. Dumbledore was seated in his chair, gazing at Harry, but his eyes did not twinkle and there was an air of irrepressible sadness surrounding him.

"Hello, Harry," he said with ritual formality.

"Hello, Professor," Harry said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"I am… sorry, for having to do this to you, deeply, truly sorry, but it must be done."

"What, Professor?" Harry asked, his sense of foreboding increasing with every passing second.

"I know of only one place to imprison Miss Riddle where Voldemort's servants," he said, and Harry wondered why he made a distinction between the two of them, "could not ever hope to even find out that she exists. I'm sorry, Harry, but I'm afraid she will be spending the summer break with you at the Dursley's."

"_What!?_" Harry shrieked, noticing neither the fact his voice screeched like a young girl's nor the fact he was shouting at the Headmaster.

"You're going to place me with more filthy _Muggles_?" Riddle spat, turning her attention to the conversation for the first time. "Aren't your thrice-damned Vows enough, _Headmaster_?"

Harry had seen Dumbledore cow many people with a single glance, but he didn't think even he could silence the woman who would one day be _Voldemort_. Apparently, though, he could, because Riddle turned away, radiating a sort of suppressed fury that reminded Harry of Vernon Dursley every time he realised Harry existed. Before Harry could say anything else, Dumbledore held up a hand.

"Believe me, Harry, I wish as much as you there could be another way. But this must be done; we cannot have any of Voldemort's Death Eaters finding out that Miss Riddle exists, and the protections at your aunt's house prevent them from even locating it – Miss Riddle herself will only be able to enter because of the extensive series of Unbreakable Vows she has made."

And just like that, Harry had a sixteen-year-old Tom Marvolo Riddle—who happened to be female despite having a male name—as a summer guest. He knew he wouldn't be going to the Burrow at all, not with her there, but he didn't think he'd be going anyway. He wasn't—couldn't be—friends with Ron any more, and he'd taken too much from the Weasleys already.

Perhaps the only good thing about this arrangement was that he very much doubted, even if she'd sworn never to harm another person in her life, that Riddle would let the Dursleys treat her like they treated him. It would be nice to see someone stand up to them for once, even if that person was the teenaged reincarnation of a mass-murderer and a terrorist.

* * *

_Harry had been to several Hogwarts feasts, but never one quite like this_.

The atmosphere was twisted, a pitiful, broken thing; everyone knew they should be happy because all the Petrified victims had been saved and Harry had killed the Basilisk, but they only had to look at the Gryffindor table to see the crushing despair hovering around the Weasleys like a vulture in the desert, picking apart the carcasses of who they once were and the family they should have been.

Fred and George had come up to Harry at one point, where he sat well away from Ron and Hermione (Hermione had tried to join him, once, but Ron had grabbed her hand and Harry had shaken his head with heavy finality), and told him he'd done everything he could have done; he thanked them, all the while thinking _but not everything I _should_ have done_. Percy had nodded to him once across the table, slow and stiffly formal, like he would break if he moved swifter than a glacier.

Gryffindor House as a whole was subdued, having lost a member to the scourge of Voldemort; Dumbledore had applauded Harry's courage and made sure that everyone knew he had been facing off against a thousand-year-old Basilisk and a resurrected Voldemort with only the Sword of Gryffindor. Dumbledore never explained how, or why, but the sheer intensity of his voice and the flaring rage of his magic convinced even the most sceptical of the truth. The Headmaster had also explained that the Sword could not be presented to the Hall because it had been destroyed by Fiendfyre from Voldemort's wand, and Harry's head slumped in sadness – he'd been hoping against hope that somehow the sword had survived when Riddle had incinerated the Basilisk.

There were very few cheers when it was announced that Gilderoy Lockhart had lost his memory and would not be returning to teach the next year; not because those present were not happy about it—even Snape looked somewhat pleased at the news—but because in light of a student's death, who were they to celebrate something as trivial as the loss of an incompetent teacher?

Not even the news that the exams had been cancelled brought much joy to the sombre Hall (even the Slytherins were subdued, although that was more likely than not politically motivated rather than out of any real sense of loss). Harry and Ron were awarded a hundred points each to Gryffindor for their efforts in finding the Chamber of Secrets and subduing the Basilisk, but neither particularly cared, and neither did their Housemates.

And so, a few, scant weeks later, Harry found himself sitting in a compartment on the Hogwart's express, alone save for the presence of Riddle. Nobody came to bother him, not even Malfoy; probably partly because Lucius had been sacked as a school governor and partly because he wasn't sitting in his usual compartment with his friends. _Former friends, they have to be _former _friends._

Riddle was lost in her own world, gazing out the window, a faint look of loss on her face, although Harry had no idea why (if he'd known it was because Riddle missed Hogwarts like it was her true home, he'd have been disgusted with how similar his own thoughts were to hers).

"Why'd you do it?" he asked, breaking the silence.

Riddle glanced at him, haughty and disdainful. "It's bad enough that I'm stuck with you; I don't particularly want to talk to you as well."

"Not so talkative when you've lost, are you?" Harry shot back, suddenly furious. "Guess you're just mad Dumbledore proved he's better than you."

Riddle blinked before scowling furiously, twisting her flawless face with a rage held in check only by the weight of her Vows; as much as she might want to curse Harry, she couldn't voluntarily harm him unless she wanted to be killed by her own magic. Silence fell, for how long Harry didn't know, and just when he'd almost forgotten the question, she started to speak.

"You're an orphan, Potter," she said, sneering. "You know what it's like to be powerless. I'm ten times the witch compared to anyone else you know, and if that stupid girl's memories of the tales of Voldemort were right, I could duel Albus Dumbledore to a _standstill_ with a _third_ of his experience. Why should I let lesser witches and wizards—pathetic, wasted excuses for magical power—have a say in what I do? My life is _mine_."

She turned back to gaze out the window and was silent for the rest of the ride back, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.

When they arrived back at the station, Harry got off the train as fast as he could, collecting his luggage and Hedwig; Riddle had luggage of her own, although from how or where she'd got it, Harry didn't know – probably something Dumbledore had arranged. Her wand—her actual wand, the brother (or would it be sister?) to Harry's—dangled idly in her fingers; Dumbledore had seen fit to give it back to her from where he'd retrieved it after Harry's defeat of Voldemort as a child as a sort of 'good behaviour bond', although Harry personally thought the idea was ludicrous.

Normally, Riddle would have caught the eye of every male in the vicinity, and Harry—the Boy Who Lived—was famous enough for the both of them (although if anyone knew he was walking alongside the future Lord Voldemort, well, maybe not in that case), but nobody noticed the two of them. Glancing at Riddle, he saw her pocketing her wand again – it seemed she didn't want any attention. For once, Harry agreed with her on something.

They exited Platform 9 and ¾, and made their way over to the Dursleys. Clearly, Riddle had lifted the charm at some point (why Dumbledore was allowing her to use magic, even casual, household magic, was beyond Harry), because Vernon, Petunia and Dudley noticed the two of them immediately. By the snarl on her face, Riddle had noticed them right back.

"_Those_ are the Muggles you live with?" she spat. "I should just kill you now and let these Salazar-damned Vows take me."

"Who are you?" Vernon demanded, turning red like he'd heard Riddle's words. In retrospect, she had been quite loud in her disdain.

Riddle sidled up to him; something about her walk changed and Harry was somehow reminded of a snake, a viper slithering through the grass, ready to strike. She laid a hand on Vernon's arm, but she must have been doing something else—Harry didn't know about wandless magic yet—because he suddenly stiffened, and Harry swore he could _feel_ Riddle's power radiating off her. For all that he knew she couldn't harm him (or anyone else, really), she still frightened him somewhat.

"Someone who would very, _very_ much like to kill you, you stupid, fat Muggle," she said, staring directly into his eyes like she was trying to read his mind; when she started speaking again, Harry wondered if perhaps she actually _could_.

"Apparently I have to stay with you for the summer, but if you treat me or Potter _anything_ like you've done in the past, I will _end_ you," she said, gripping his arm hard enough that he flinched, although that may have been because the shirt under her fingers was smoking slightly. Harry wondered both why nobody was looking in their direction (before realising Riddle had probably done something about that) and why Riddle had bothered to include him in her statement.

"Yo—you can't use magic outside of school," Vernon blubbered, obviously noticing Riddle looked too young to have graduated.

"Do I look like I _care_?" Riddle hissed, her fingers pressing down, hooking around his arm like talons, or the fangs of a snake. She held him a moment longer before releasing his arm and stepping back; she smiled at Petunia and Dudley, but it was almost manic, a slasher smile promising pain and screaming if they ever thought of crossing her. Riddle was a hell of an actress; Harry had to give her that. That said, in her mind, she probably wasn't acting at all.

The journey back to Privet Drive was subdued; Vernon concentrated solely on the road, Petunia looked like she'd rather be anywhere else other than the car, and Dudley shivered every time they took a corner and Harry so much as brushed into him.

They arrived back at Number Four, and Harry carried his trunk inside. Riddle didn't; she walked straight inside with a mixture of almost-imperial majesty and disgust. Vernon had clearly taken heed of her warning (or was it a bluff?), because he took Riddle's trunk inside for her. The Dursleys promptly retreated to another room, and, remembering back to earlier, Harry turned to Riddle, asking her a question.

"Why'd you include me in your warning?" he said curiously; he was honestly puzzled about the whole thing, because he couldn't think why she'd do anything remotely nice for him if she didn't have to.

"They're Muggles, and you're a wizard," she said, as if it explained everything. Then again, knowing who she was and what she became, it probably did. "Now, where am I going to sleep in this pathetic excuse for a house?"

* * *

Life at the Dursleys was, strangely enough, a lot better now that Riddle was there. Vernon and Petunia never asked Harry to do any chores, or to cook their breakfasts or anything like that: Petunia did all the cooking nowadays, the closest Harry got to doing work around the house was climbing up and down the stairs, and Dudley bolted from the room the moment either of the two of them entered.

As for Riddle herself, she spent most of her time in the lounge-room, reading over a ratty copy of a fifth-year Transfiguration textbook (it seemed Dumbledore was forcing her to finish her education at Hogwarts, although from what little he'd seen of her she probably would have wanted that anyway); the way she was skimming through it suggested she was either bored, or already understood all of it. Personally, Harry suspected it was the latter.

Harry himself was taking advantage of his newfound freedom to finish his summer homework; it was surprisingly easier than it had been last year, and he suspected that might be due to the fact he was getting proper meals and a good night's sleep for the first time in his life. He'd even asked Riddle for help a few times; the first time he'd asked, she'd laughed at him and turned straight back to her book, but after the third or fourth time she'd actually answered, saying she was 'tired of his incompetence', and proceeded to be one of the best teachers he'd ever had.

She was like… she was like a good version of Snape, which was a really weird comparison considering who he was talking about. He was fairly sure Riddle was only helping him because she was bored out of her mind and liked to lord her superiority over him whenever she could (to make up for the fact she was practically at Dumbledore's mercy with every breath), but he honestly didn't care. More fool her if she thought being smarter than he was made him feel unhappy - he'd had to deal with a lot worse than mere disdainful superiority in his life thus far.

About two weeks into the summer holidays, something rather unexpected happened. Harry was sitting, re-reading the _Standard Book of Spells _(second grade), and when Riddle walked into the room, he happened to glance up, looking her in the eyes. That in itself wasn't particularly unusual - it was what happened next that was odd. She practically growled in frustration, a earthy, shuddering sound, and marched over to him.

"I am _sick_ and _tired_ of having to know your _stupid_, _banal_ thoughts every time we lock eyes. I don't know if I can stand it any more," she hissed.

Harry was completely confused, and even more so when she grabbed his book out of his hands and flung it to the floor. He looked at her, half-scandalized, half-wary as she turned and walked away, beckoning him over her shoulder.

"Come with me," she said, her tone brooking no argument. He followed, more out of curiosity than anything else, and she led him to the dining room, taking one seat and gesturing for him to take the one opposite her. He sat down slowly, wondering what was going on.

"You are going to learn Occlumency," she commanded almost angrily.

"What's that?" Harry asked.

Riddle sighed wearily, as if she'd forgotten he wasn't a twisted magical prodigy like herself.

"It's a way of keeping your private thoughts private," she answered. "Now, pay attention. I will _not_ say this again."

* * *

It had taken Harry almost three weeks to get there, but he'd finally done it - he'd managed to sort through all his memories and organise them; Riddle had said that a well-ordered mind was the key to defending it, because if you didn't even know your own thoughts, how could you protect them from someone else? It was a difficult, almost impossible task, especially when he'd had to relive some of his worst Dursley experiences, the fight against Quirrel for the Stone, and of course the events of the Chamber, but he'd persevered; Occlumency sounded like something that would make him stronger, that would help him defeat Voldemort if—_when_—they fought again, and so he would do whatever it took to learn it.

Interestingly enough, learning Occlumency had actually helped him through his guilt and crushing despair over Ginny Weasley's death. Reviewing the memories over and over again, lost in a morbid fascination bordering on masochistic, he'd slowly begun to understand that there was nothing else he could have done. There was no way he could have actually saved Ginny's life; Riddle was older, wiser, a better wizard _and_ had controlled a thousand-year-old Basilisk. It was a miracle he'd actually been able to kill the damn thing and get out alive. Of course, that didn't mean he was suddenly happy again - while he knew there was nothing more he could have done to try and save her at the time, if he'd been faster, or smarter, or a better wizard, maybe she wouldn't have died.

He was no longer lost in despair; he'd taken his grief and guilt and impotent rage and forged it into iron-hard resolve. He _would_ be faster. He _would_ be smarter. He _would_ be a better wizard. Ginny's death had finally made him understand the truth - if he wanted to keep fighting Voldemort, and avenge his parents and everyone else she'd killed, he needed to be _better_. Harry could not afford to be a child any more (a part of him simply knew that Voldemort would keep coming after him until one of them was dead). Voldemort was still out there, and Harry swore to himself that one day, he would be the one to confront the monster and _end_ her.

Returning to his current task, now that he'd organised his memories, he had the even more difficult task of constructing a mental defence. Basic walls and barriers were passable for everyday use, but after Riddle had almost torn his mind apart with a Legilimency probe (with his permission, of course, she couldn't voluntarily do anything that could even possibly harm him without it) at the age of sixteen, he'd realised that to even dream of keeping out the older, more powerful Voldemort, he'd have to do a hell of a lot better than 'passable'.

That said, he had absolutely no idea what to do. He sat in silence for a while, thinking, before realising what the problem was - he was trying to rush into things too much, trying to go from "No Occlumency" to "Master Occlumens" without taking the intervening path. First, he should start with the simple things—walls, barriers, shields—before trying anything fancy. Start small, and build up from there.

So, without further ado, Harry set his mind to the task of trying to create basic Occlumentic defences.

By the time he finished, feeling the last section of the mental dome snap into place around his mind, the night had long since drifted into day, and there was an owl tapping on his window. He'd been so focused on his inner self and defending it that he hadn't even noticed he'd been up all night; as soon as he thought that, a wave of weariness crashed over him and he almost collapsed back into bed. The only thing that stopped him from falling straight to sleep was the insistent owl - the creature was carrying a large book, and with a start Harry realised that today was the thirty-first of July.

It was his birthday.

He opened the window, letting the owl in; it carried two parcels, an envelope with the Hogwarts crest on it and another, larger, squarish package that seemed to be... moving slightly? Ignoring the Hogwarts letter for the moment, he picked up the slightly-quivering package, recognizing Hagrid's untidy scrawl on the brown paper packaging. Opening it slowly, he had just enough time to raise an eyebrow at the book's appearance and title (_The Monster Book of Monsters_) before it twisted through the air, landing on one edge and proceeding to run across the top of his bed like an insect, or a particularly strange crab.

Harry lunged for it as it scurried under the bed, shouting out in pain (and hoping he didn't wake the Dursleys, although he didn't particularly care about Riddle) as it snapped down on his hand with jaws a book really shouldn't have. Gritting his teeth, he shoved his other hand under the bed as well and grabbed the book, dragging it back towards him, somewhat surprised it didn't screech on the way out. He clamped the struggling book to his chest and was mid-way through stumbling towards his chest of drawers when the book suddenly froze against his chest. Looking over to the side, he saw Riddle shaking her head blearily, wand in hand; she slept on a mattress on his floor (Harry didn't particularly feel the need to be chivalrous to the future Voldemort).

"What the hell is that?" she hissed, voice still blurred with sleep.

"A book. Hagrid gave it to me," Harry replied.

"That bumbling oaf? I'm not surprised," she said, disdain bleeding through her tone.

"Hagrid's a better person than you'll ever be, Riddle," Harry shot back.

Riddle snarled, but said nothing as she turned over to face the door rather than Harry; the action was so oddly childish he almost started laughing. Now having the book under control, Harry proceeded to wrap one of his spare belts around it; in this case, he was actually happy all his old clothes were Dudley's, because the belt was long enough for him to tie it around the book twice. Turning his attention to the attached card, Harry began to read.

_Dear Harry,_

_Happy Birthday!_

_Think you might find this useful for next year. Won't say no more here. Tell you when I see you._

_Hope the Muggles are treating you right._

_All the best,_

_Hagrid_

Harry wasn't particularly sure what it boded for the year to come that Hagrid thought a semi-sentient biting book would come in handy, but hopefully it wasn't anything _too_ bad. Placing the card to one side, Harry picked up the Hogwarts letter (there wasn't one for Riddle, something that didn't surprise Harry in the slightest). It was slightly thicker than the one last year; the oddity was explained when he opened the letter and three pieces of parchment fell out rather than the usual two. The first was the standard Hogwart's letter, the text almost unchanged save for informing him that third-years were permitted to visit Hogsmeade, and that a permission form was enclosed; he noticed with a frown that, according to the letter, he would need his guardians to sign it for him. _Oh well, they probably will the moment I ask them, thanks to Riddle_. The second was the aforementioned permission slip and the third his booklist - he noted with a sigh of relief that there wasn't a massive list of books from the same author under the Defence Against the Dark Arts section.

Briefly, Harry wondered what subjects he'd end up choosing for the coming year, but he decided that was a subject best considered with a good night's sleep.

* * *

**I promise I have a canon-compliant explanation as to how Riddle gets her original wand back from Dumbledore despite Pettigrew giving it to Voldemort in the canon resurrection scene. If all goes well, that should be in the next chapter or the one after.**


	2. The Diverging Path

The next morning, when Harry woke up, Riddle seemed to have just returned to consciousness as well; she was stretching languidly, and Harry's now-thirteen-year-old brain noted that for all he thought he could never consider her beautiful, she really _was_ extraordinarily attractive, especially when only wearing a night-shift. He averted his eyes and focused on his Occlumentic meditations to clear his mind (apparently that was part of Occlumency, although not one particularly integral), seeking around for something to distract him from his traitorous thoughts.

"What subjects did you do at Hogwarts?" he asked - it was more than a distraction in this case, because he honestly wanted to find out the answer. He couldn't beat Voldemort if he didn't know what she knew, and finding out her school subjects (and perhaps even choosing them for his own) was the best place to start.

She was silent for a moment, probably pondering whether or not it was worth her time denying him the answer (he didn't think she would, he could easily owl Dumbledore for the information if he really wanted to), but then spoke.

"Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, Herbology and Defence Against the Dark Arts," she answered, voice dancing with dark amusement as she said the final subject.

"Arithmancy? Ancient Runes?" he asked curiously. Those were two of the subjects on offer starting from third year.

"Arithmancy is magical mathematics, and Ancient Runes is exactly what the name suggests," she said, before he heard the sounds of her moving around the room; she was probably tossing on some of the clothes that Dumbledore seemed to have provided her over the top of her shift. The door clicked open and she left, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.

When he left the room, he'd made his decision; he was going to take both Arithmancy and Ancient Runes when he got back to Hogwarts. _Know thy enemy, indeed._

A week or so later, Harry was in the middle of an Occlumentic duel against Riddle when Albus Dumbledore arrived at the Dursley's front door. The duels were strangely enjoyable; Harry liked the feeling of success that flowed through him when he held her out just that little bit longer (even if it was only a fraction of a second in a fight that still only took less than ten), and she seemed to enjoy the thrill of shattering his barriers, lunging through them with mental probes like a thousand burning knives. Even with all the practice he was putting in, she was frighteningly powerful.

The sound of the door opening distracted Harry, and his shields collapsed as Riddle tore through them before she retreating; she sighed, probably because of how easily he'd had his mind taken off defending against her. One thing he'd noticed about Riddle was that she had an odd sense of fairness; she enjoyed winning in all its forms, but she was far more satisfied if her opponent was actively trying to defeat her.

He turned to face the dining room's entrance—they often duelled across its table—surprise flickering over his face when he saw the unexpected guest.

"Headmaster? What are you doing here, sir?" he said, while in the background Riddle mockingly inclined her head towards Dumbledore.

"I believe you may need to purchase some books for the upcoming year, Harry, and so does Miss Riddle. I think, in light of the current circumstances," Dumbledore said, and Harry noticed he paused slightly on the words 'current circumstances', "it would be best if I escorted your shopping trip."

Riddle sighed, but Harry was actually pleased - the reason he hadn't already asked Vernon to take him to Diagon Alley was because he had absolutely no idea what to do with Riddle. He'd been planning to owl the Headmaster about it that night, in fact.

"But first, Harry, what do you know of Sirius Black?" Dumbledore asked.

"Nothing, sir," Harry answered, but the name seemed oddly familiar. "Wait, wasn't he on the news a week or so ago?"

"Ah, I see I have some explaining to do. I would ask you to take a seat, but that would be redundant; I think I'll take one myself, instead," Dumbledore said, flicking his wand; one of the dining room chairs pulled itself out, and Dumbledore took it.

After explaining who Sirius Black was, and what he had been, Harry wasn't sure what made him angrier - the fact the person who betrayed his parents had escaped Azkaban, or that the man had been his godfather, and could have cared for him, could have taken him away from the Dursleys, if he hadn't been a traitor. Dumbledore must have seen the anger in his face, because the Headmaster warned him that vengeance was all-consuming, and that he should let those qualified to do so recapture Black - what good would it serve his parents if he got himself killed trying to kill their betrayer?

On some level, Harry understood the truth of Dumbledore's statement, but on another, he wondered something else: how he was supposed to defeat Voldemort when he next fought her if he couldn't even defeat one of her servants? He wasn't going to go out and actively seek Black, he knew he wasn't an extraordinarily competent dueler—and only an average wizard, although he was planning to change both this year—but he certainly wasn't going to run away if the fight ever came to him.

With the discussion finished, Dumbledore picked up a plate from the sideboard and tapped it with his wand, muttering something under his breath. The plate glowed blue briefly, and then the Headmaster instructed both Harry and Riddle to take hold of it - Harry didn't know what was going on, but Riddle obviously did, because she got up and walked over before grasping the edge with two elegant fingers. Harry followed suit, and with a tugging on his navel, they vanished, re-appearing in an alleyway off to the side of the main Diagon Alley thoroughfare.

* * *

When they returned, Harry was carrying the books for Arithmancy and Ancient Runes (_Numerology and Grammatic_ and _Spellman's Syllabary_, along with a dictionary of Runes) as well as his third-year Charms, Transfiguration and Defence Against the Dark Arts textbooks; his Potions and Herbology books carried over from the year before. Riddle was similarly laden down, although all her books were second-hand. After putting the books in his room, Dumbledore asked Harry if he could speak to him in another room, ostensibly about Sirius Black. Of course, that wasn't what the conversation was really about.

"Harry, I couldn't help but notice you seem to have some basic Occlumentic defences," the Headmaster said neutrally; normally, Harry would consider that a bad thing, but in this case he was relieved it wasn't overt disappointment.

"Yes, sir. Riddle decided to start teaching me a little under two months ago; I'm not entirely sure why she did it, but it seemed like something that would be useful against Voldemort. Should I stop practicing?" he asked nervously.

"She did, did she? Interesting..." Dumbledore trailed off for a moment before continuing. "No, Harry, by all means continue. I suspect it will serve you well in the future."

With that, Dumbledore bid Harry goodbye, and Apparated away. Harry returned to his room, just in time to catch Riddle leaving, one of her sixth-year textbooks in hand. They had the house to themselves; Petunia and Vernon were out, and Dudley was at school, although whether it counted as being at school when he only seemed to get dumber with each passing year, Harry didn't know. Ignoring her, Harry went over to where he'd dumped his own textbooks, deciding to get a head-start on the third-year curriculum, particularly in the areas of Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, since he knew almost nothing about the two of them. Normally he would have neither the time nor inclination for that sort of Hermione-ish behaviour—they might not be able to be friends any more, but two years of memories are hard to lose—but without any chores and the brutal truth of his loss to Voldemort walking around in his house, there was no time to be a child any more.

The days slid past quickly, and in no time at all Vernon was driving the two of them to King's Cross Station, where they would board the Hogwart's express for the upcoming year. Riddle seemed to have re-cast whatever spell she'd used the last time they'd been here, because she and Harry slid through the crowd without a single eye turning to notice them. Wordlessly, they both made their way to an empty compartment towards the middle of the train - not out of any desire for the other's company, but simply because they had nowhere else to go, although for completely different reasons.

Riddle sat down on one side, Harry on the other, and just before he started his fourth re-read of his Arithmancy textbook (he was really going to have to work hard in order to pass, based on what he'd seen thus far) he noticed Riddle pulling out a textbook of her own. The rest of the journey passed in silence, until the train started slowing down; it was too early for them to have arrived at Hogwarts, and Harry wondered what was going on. It jerked to a halt, and then all the lamps suddenly died; for a moment, Harry's compartment was plunged into darkness, but then something flared and he saw Riddle moving her wand in a circle, balls of light shooting from the tip and hovering around the compartment.

"What's going on?" he asked, more talking to himself than anything else. Riddle didn't respond.

About ten minutes later, as best as Harry could estimate the passing of time, the lights came back on, Riddle vanished the lights she'd summoned and the train started moving again. A little while later, they arrived at Hogwarts, and Harry and Riddle disembarked. He froze, however, when he noticed that the horseless carriages weren't so horseless any more. Riddle must have noticed his shock, because she glanced from Harry to the carriages and back again.

"What are those?" he asked; since when were skeletal horses real?

Riddle didn't answer, but she could clearly see them as well, since she was looking exactly where he was. Deciding to ask someone about them later—maybe the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, whoever he or she was—Harry got into a carriage, Riddle reluctantly following suit. A little while later, some older students, probably sixth or seventh years, also got into the carriage, but they didn't pay Harry (or Riddle) any attention.

They arrived at Hogwarts, the Sorting and the rest of the Welcome Feast passing in a blur, save for the warning about Sirius Black and the Dementors, the announcement that an older man with shabby-looking clothes by the name of Remus Lupin was the new DADA professor (Harry didn't judge him by the way he dressed, he knew exactly what it was like to not have clothes that fit) and the message that Hagrid had taken over as the Care of Magicial Creatures professor. Harry applauded wildly along with the rest of the Gryffindors, but couldn't suppress a pang of loss - if he'd had any time to be the old him, if he could have been able to spend time with his friends (he suspected Ron had taken Divination and Care of Magical Creatures like they'd talked about last year), he would have been having classes with Hagrid. But he couldn't, and he had to harden his heart against that sort of loss; he could still visit Hagrid's cabin, of course, as there was no point staying away from the half-giant since everyone knew he was firmly Dumbledore's man anyway.

The first few days of school passed uneventfully, save for Malfoy having apparently mistreated a Hippogriff and been mauled for his troubles; Harry, although attempting to isolate himself as much as possible from his fellow Gryffindors (he and Ron had gotten a fair few strange looks when they greeted one another in much the same way Gryffindors greeted Hufflepuffs), couldn't help but overhear the story, and he laughed along with the rest.

Malfoy returned to classes on Thursday, in the middle of the Slytherin and Gryffindor's double potions lesson, a lesson that had been rather... interesting for Harry. When he'd arrived, he'd chosen a seat away from his usual bench, partnering with Neville. Why he'd done that, he didn't know, it was practically begging Snape to unleash hell on this particular corner of the classroom. Neville had looked surprised, but didn't comment. Snape had arrived, and Harry swore he'd seen a look of surprise on _his_ face as well, although it faded so quickly Harry wasn't entirely sure that he hadn't imagined it.

Harry had chanced to look into Snape's eyes shortly after that, and felt a strange stirring on the outside of his Occlumentic defences (well, defence, he hadn't managed anything more impressive than a single, all-encompassing dome); it felt a little like Riddle when she was using Legilimency on him, but subtler and oddly... gentle. If Harry hadn't been practicing so intently, he doubted he would have recognized its existence even _with_ the dome in place. Snape's face flickered into true surprise, this time, before fading to a scowl, and Harry looked away, wondering how for long Snape had been using Legilimency on his students. It certainly explained his eerie ability to tell when someone was lying or not.

When Malfoy arrived, his arm in a sling, Snape forced Ron to cut up his daisy roots, and Hermione to skin his shrivel-fig - Harry was shocked that he hadn't been called upon to do it. It wasn't until he realised that he'd been successfully ignoring all of Snape's baiting thus far in the lesson that he understood why; Snape knew he had Occlumentic defences, which precipitated some degree of Occlumentic control over his own mind. Forcing Harry to do something for Malfoy no longer served Snape's purpose to infuriate Harry, to bully him and generally make his life miserable, because Harry could control his temper. He _wouldn't_ react to Malfoy, or being forced to do anything for him. He'd just do it, and make Malfoy look like a petty fool if he tried to start anything while Harry sat there, calmly ignoring him.

Harry had no doubt Snape would find some method to get back at him, and probably extremely quickly, but it seemed he was safe for this lesson. Unfortunately for Neville, that meant that all of Snape's attention was focused on him, and even if Harry was a more competent partner than he would have been the year before thanks to his holiday studying, by the time the lesson ended his fellow Gryffindor was almost in tears.

His first Defence against the Dark Arts lesson was also rather unusual. Almost the moment they'd arrived, Professor Lupin had told them they'd only need their wands, and proceeded to lead them out of the classroom and into the staff-room. After a brief encounter with Peeves along the way, and a slightly longer one with Professor Snape, the class had proceeded to do battle against a Boggart—Harry was fairly sure Boggart-Snape in Neville's grandmother's clothes would go down in history—although, strangely enough, Harry hadn't been allowed to combat it. It took him a little while to understand why, but then he realised Professor Lupin might not want to submit the rest of the class to a fully-resurrected, at-full-strength Voldemort; Harry wasn't certain that was his greatest fear, but he couldn't think of anything else more likely than that.

Over the weekend, Harry found himself wondering what was going on with Riddle, in between doing his weekly homework, practicing Occlumency and generally being a recluse. His questions were answered on the first Sunday of the term, when Professor McGonagall came to inform him that the Headmaster required his presence in his office; this time, it seemed he would need a password, because she also informed him that the Headmaster had expressed a passing fancy to Mars Bars. When he passed the gargoyles and made his way up to Dumbledore's office, he found a situation almost functionally identical to the last time he was there - Riddle was staring out the window, and Dumbledore was seated at his desk, although Riddle did not seem to be quite so angry and the Headmaster's eyes had their twinkle back.

"Ah, Harry, welcome. Lemon drop?" Dumbledore offered. Harry shook his head, and Dumbledore moved on.

"Now, I suspect you have been wondering what has been happening with Miss Riddle while you have been engaged in your first week," he said. Harry nodded in reply.

"As you have no doubt guessed, I have asked you here to explain the situation. I have cast a spell, an extraordinarily complex charm tying itself into the magic of Hogwarts itself, which renders Miss Riddle functionally invisible to the general population of Hogwarts. She is physically able to be seen, but suffice it to say she is unnoticeable; you are familiar with a Notice-Me-Not charm? It is much like that, except on a much grander scale."

Dumbledore finished his explanation, and looked at Harry, obviously making sure that he understood before continuing.

"I have obviously made sure the charm does not affect you or me, as well as another individual I trust implicitly."

Harry wondered who he could be referring to before he realised exactly who Dumbledore had described using precisely those words in years gone by; thanks to his Occlumency training, he'd found his memory much improved. He focused back on what Dumbledore was saying to catch his next words.

"That said, I must warn you that, if you feel the need to contact Miss Riddle—or she feels the need to contact you—I advise you to do it in a private location. While the charm can hide her and anything she personally interacts with, to a limited degree, it is not able to conceal her if someone it does not affect draws attention to her."

"So, if I, for whatever reason, decide to start talking to her in the middle of the Great Hall, people will start to notice she exists and so on?" Harry asked.

"Precisely, my dear boy, precisely. Especially in your case, in fact: as Harry Potter, as much as you detest your fame, you _are_ noticeable. You are too much in the public eye, even here at Hogwarts, for the magic to successfully hide you as well as Miss Riddle."

"Yes, Headmaster," Harry said; he doubted he'd be seeking Riddle out any time soon, except maybe for Occlumency practice, although whether she'd be willing to help him anymore, he didn't know. With that, Dumbledore dismissed him, and Harry left; as he walked away, Dumbledore's voice drifted over his shoulder.

"Now, Miss Riddle, I believe I have some more questions for you…"

* * *

Time passed, and Quidditch practices began again; with the way they added to his workload, Harry didn't even notice the weeks blurring by. Without his friends to keep him company, he spent most of his free time in the library, studying and learning and forcing himself to _be better_, no matter how much he might hate what he was doing at the time.

Before he realised it, it was Halloween, and time for the first Hogsmede weekend. Harry—even though he had his formed signed, as his prediction had been right, Vernon was completely cowed by Riddle—wasn't going; he didn't have time to waste on that sort of thing. So, rather than joining the line to visit the village, Harry made his way to the library, deciding to get a head-start on next week's Transfiguration work.

When he arrived there, he found Riddle with much the same idea (not that she was probably permitted to go to Hogsmede, even if she wanted to go), although the book she was reading was clearly something to do with DADA based on the title: _Fire and Fury – A Guide to Element-based Magic_.

An hour or so later, Riddle tossed the book down with a huff and walked over to Harry. Her wand danced in her fingers, and Harry saw the air shimmer slightly before she sat down opposite him. He was just about to ask her what she was doing when she started speaking.

"Defend yourself," she said, staring him in the eyes, but she didn't attack, and it took a moment for Harry to realise she still needed his permission to use Legilimency on him. He nodded, not breaking her gaze, and wondered how his first true test of whether or not he'd improved over the two months he'd spent working on his defences would go.

About twenty seconds later, the last of his shields crumbled to dust and Riddle lunged into his mind before retreating. She sighed, clearly disappointed, but Harry was elated – he'd held her out for twice as long as he had before, and that was something to be proud of, whatever she thought. They continued to duel until it was time for the Halloween Feast, and Harry noticed in his peripheral vision that while the occasional person came in and out of the library, even those who walked straight past them didn't seem to know they were there. Maybe he should ask Riddle—although he doubted she'd tell him—what that spell was, because it seemed useful.

By the time they left—not together, but at the same time—Harry had managed to hold her out for an entire half-minute; practical experience at defending his mind was just as, if not more useful than the hour or so he spent every day mediating and shoring up his Occlumentic barriers. He was happy, flushed with success at how quickly he'd been able to improve, but Riddle was as readable as some of the latter chapters of his Ancient Runes textbook; he was fairly sure she'd only decided to duel him out of boredom and to get a few easy victories, but sometimes the look in her eye was entirely too calculating for him to believe the impression entirely. Still, Occlumency was a weapon against Voldemort, and if Riddle was willing to teach him, he didn't particularly care _why_ she was willing.

The Feast passed almost exactly like the one in Harry's first year, with the exception of the Voldemort-possessed DADA teacher running in and telling everyone there was a troll in the dungeons. What happened afterward, however, was certainly not part of the routine.

Sirius Black had attacked the Fat Lady's portrait in an attempt to get into Gryffindor Tower; why he'd done that when the obvious target, Harry, had been in the Great Hall along with the rest of the school, Harry didn't know, although Black had escaped from Azkaban and he was probably at the very least half-mad. He might even have been trying to set a trap.

Whatever his purpose, he clearly failed, unless what he _actually_ wanted was to inconvenience Harry by forcing him to sleep in the Great Hall that night along with the rest of the school, or if he wanted to try and stop him practicing Quidditch; Professor McGonagall had tried that, but when Harry reminded her their upcoming match was against the Slytherins, she acquiesced to simply having Madam Hooch oversee the Gryffindor's training sessions.

It was at one of these training sessions that Wood informed the team they were not, in fact, playing Slytherin like they'd expected, but were rather against Hufflepuff. Harry wasn't particularly surprised; the Slytherins would always try and cheat their way into a better position, and now that they had an excuse about their Seeker 'not being able to play', they could get out of playing the first match of the season in the utterly atrocious weather they'd been having recently.

After being woken up by Peeves at half-past-four in the morning, and spending his next few hours worrying about the match and not eating much, Harry made his way to the Quidditch pitch with the rest of the Gryffindor team, barely able to stand amidst the howling gusts of wind, the pelting rain and the occasional ominous roll of thunder.

* * *

Tom Marvolo Riddle had spent the vast majority of the past four months thinking. Ever since she'd been resurrected from the Diary, a triumph that quickly turned sour once she was in Dumbledore's hands, she'd been plotting; she cursed his meddling interference even as she acknowledged the fact he had her over a barrel (numerous barrels, in fact). And she was slowly coming to a most unfortunate realisation.

She was not so proud and arrogant to believe she could break an Unbreakable Vow – she knew she was brilliant, every bit as good as Dumbledore had been at her age if not better, but she wasn't Merlin, and Merlin was the one who'd first invented the Vow. Which is why, rather than trying to get herself out of the binding Vows Dumbledore had forced her to place around her neck like an ever-tightening noose, she'd been trying to see if there was any possible way around them.

There wasn't.

Dumbledore had done his work well. Very well. It was impossible for her to aid her future self in any way, shape or form, or to kill Potter or Dumbledore or anyone like that. She wasn't totally restricted (one of the ways Dumbledore had convinced her to take certain Vows was the threat of forcing her to swear that she would never kill anyone again, or that she wouldn't use any magic other than spells he personally approved), but she _was_ trapped.

Which had led her to her aforementioned unfortunate realisation. The only way she could now ever hope to enjoy the same levels of control and power that she had previously enjoyed was if Potter or Dumbledore were the ones in power, rather than Lord Voldemort. Her qualms weren't quite about fighting against her future self; if it came to down to a choice between the two of them, she'd choose herself every time. She was a separate entity, and she valued her _own_ life and success rather than the life and success of what she'd become since leaving Hogwarts (the temporal distinctions got extremely confusing sometimes, especially when she had to differentiate Lord Voldemort and Tom Marvolo Riddle in her head despite the fact one was simply an older version of the same person).

What irked her was the fact she'd have to fight alongside the vaunted forces of the Light; they were weak, childish, and sanctimonious, convinced that being stronger meant you were supposed to 'protect' those weaker than you. Frankly, she'd never heard of a more stupid idea in her life.

What was the _point_ of having power if you didn't use it to do whatever you wanted to do? Why should she care about what some prissy almost-Squib thought, she, who had the blood of _Salazar Slytherin_ himself running through her veins, along with the House of Gaunt's and, according to her research, the fabled House of Peverell itself? She was _better_ than other people, and they should show her the respect and fear she deserved.

Returning to her original train of thought, she had realised something else, something that made her first, unfortunate realisation slightly better. While her Vows didn't permit her to act against either Dumbledore's or Potter's interests, they didn't stop her from trying to _change_ those interests. Dumbledore was too set in his ways for her to influence, but Potter wasn't. All she had to do was open his eyes to the wonder of the Dark Arts, enlighten him as to the ways of power, and turn him from Dumbledore's side to her own (although he would have to think it was _his_ own, of course), and her Vows would be meaningless restrictions.

Another way for her to be released would be if Dumbledore was to die, but bound as she was, she couldn't do it herself – either she'd have to wait until her future self (because while she might despise Dumbledore, she knew exactly how powerful a wizard he was) killed the Headmaster, or somehow get Potter to do it. That said, it cost her nothing to try and turn Potter regardless; having two contingencies was always better than having one.

She'd have to be subtle, of course, Potter was far too stubborn and Dumbledore far too smart for her to do anything rapidly. Her plan would take _years_, but she didn't particularly care. She could be patient, and this way she was setting up a win-win situation – no matter who won, she'd be on the right side and in power. It was perfect.

That train of thought was one of the reasons she'd decided to start teaching Potter Occlumency; it was a way to slowly get him used to the idea of spending time with her and learning things from her, plus she had to admit it _was_ annoying when her habitual Legilimizing of anyone she came across plucked out his inability to understand a piece of second-year Transfiguration she could do in her sleep without a wand.

It was also what had led her out here with the rest of the school in horrible weather—not that it touched her, she was a witch, after all—to watch the first Quidditch match of the year. Dumbledore would no doubt want to keep an eye on her, and if she came voluntarily, well, the more trust she built now, the easier her plans could go ahead in the future. She knew Dumbledore probably suspected she was plotting something, but as long as she kept acting like he wanted her to, there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

Turning her attention to the match, she had to admit, Potter was an extraordinarily competent flier; she was barely able to pick him against the iron sky, what with the pouring rain and howling wind, but he was clearly miles ahead of anyone else. That wasn't to say any of the players were particularly incompetent, but she couldn't deny that Potter was simply more… graceful than the rest of them.

Time passed, and both teams called multiple time-outs to try and reinvigorate their tactics (and their players, it seemed); Riddle was fairly sure neither Seeker had even _seen_ the Snitch yet, and she hoped one of them would catch the stupid thing so the match could be over and she could get back to more important things.

The match was drifting into its second hour when it happened; even from where she stood in the highest point of the stands, everything seemed to die slightly. Sound muted, colours faded, and Riddle swore she felt the faintest twinges of sadness and despair, emotions she was sure she had crushed ruthlessly long ago. She looked down, to the centre of the pitch – against the background of the darkening sky, she couldn't see them at first, but she finally identified that the multitude of clustered shadows on the ground were a little _too_ solid, too stable and unaffected by the tempestuous wind. It seemed that the Dementors supposedly guarding the school had entered the grounds, clustering on to the Quidditch pitch.

It was then she saw someone plummeting through the air, their fall slowing just before they hit the ground as Dumbledore stood in his seat, hand outstretched and fingers curling as if he was trying to catch the person's wrist from afar. With a shouted word, light burned through the stadium, illuminating the unmoving body of Harry Potter, his broom nowhere to be seen, as Dumbledore stared down at the Dementors in fury.

For a few seconds, the world seemed to constrict down to the two of them, Dumbledore and the Dementors, and then the guardians of Azkaban turned and left, floating out of the stadium and back to their posts like a hundred living shadows. Dumbledore, still burning with power and fury, shouted something over the storm – thanks to the way the wind was blowing, Riddle didn't hear him, but clearly someone did because there was a flurry of movement on the pitch as someone she didn't recognize levitated Potter's body, presumably heading toward the Hospital Wing.

The storm still raging, Riddle slipped out of the wildly-talking crowd and made her way back into the castle. If Potter was as stubborn as she thought he was, this might prove the perfect opportunity for her to get slightly closer to him. But first, she had some work to do.

* * *

Waking up was hard for Harry. Not so much out of any physical difficulty, but because he knew that when he finally opened his eyes, he wouldn't see Ron or Hermione. And that hurt, even though he knew it was his own fault, even though he knew that was the way it had to be. At least it seemed the whole Gryffindor Quidditch team was there, if the noise and names he heard were right.

The pain he felt at the loss of his friends only intensified when it turned out that not only had they lost the match—his first ever Quidditch loss—thanks to the fact he was too weak to handle Dementors (what he'd seen before he'd fallen unconscious sent a flush of cold fear and sadness through him even now), but his Nimbus 2000, his pride and joy, had been destroyed by the Whomping Willow. How was he supposed to play Quidditch again? He knew he could buy himself another broomstick, he had the money, but he was_ used_ to his Nimbus. He knew the broom like the back of his hand. What other broom could compare to that?

He briefly entertained the idea of buying a Firebolt—that would certainly be comparable—but decided against it, much for the same reasons he'd dismissed it the first time he'd walked past it on his Diagon Alley shopping trip with Riddle and the Headmaster. He guessed he'd just have to get another Nimbus; not a 2001 like Malfoy had, it was much more satisfying beating the pants off the arrogant Slytherin in a broom that wasn't even as good as his.

What he needed, what he really needed, he decided as the week progressed, was a way to defend himself against the Dementors. It was clearly possible, since Dumbledore had sent them all packing, and he couldn't imagine that only the Headmaster was capable of doing it (maybe of scaring away that many at a time, but not of defending himself against one or two). Maybe he should ask Professor Lupin; the man had proved himself an extremely competent DADA teacher, so he wouldn't be surprised if he knew how to fight them off.

His chance came when the Professor asked him to stay behind after their latest DADA lesson; after a brief conversation about his broom, Harry managed to direct the conversation toward Dementors and eventually Lupin agreed to teach him, although not until the next term – apparently he had 'things to take care of' first.

The next Hogsmede weekend came along, and Harry found himself once again in the library, this time studying all the information he could find on Dementors. It seemed the spell Lupin would be trying to teach him was the Patronus Charm, an extraordinarily complex spell designed to drive off Dementors using their antithesis – happiness and joy. Riddle was there, too, and eventually she came over and cast the same spell she'd cast before; presumably it was some sort of ward against listening (his Arithmancy text occasionally mentioned wards, so he had a rough idea what they were).

They didn't exchange words, although when he felt the questing fingers of her Legilimency, he nodded, signifying that she had his permission to actually attack. As they fought, Harry began to find the colour of her eyes very distracting; they looked brown, almost the colour of chocolate (a comparison he thought somehow… inappropriate), but he could occasionally see a glimpse of pure, vibrant red. It was annoyingly intriguing; he found himself wondering whether her eyes really did change colours every so often or whether it was some odd trick of the light.

Thankfully, it didn't quite manage to distract him from his task, and by the time it was dinner, Harry had successfully held her out for almost a minute at one point, although most of the time he was closer to forty-five seconds. As he stood up, intent on making his way to the feast, Riddle stretched almost sensually in her chair, raising her arms above her head and curving her back. The movement made Harry glance down, and he immediately wished he hadn't (although the baser parts of him disagreed). With the way she was stretching and the height he was at, he was looking directly down her shirt.

Harry was many things, but he was also a thirteen-year-old boy, and no matter what else you could say about her, Riddle was, to quote Seamus, a total babe; if she hadn't been who she was, Harry probably wouldn't have torn his gaze away so quickly. But tear it away he did, relying on his Occlumency training to clear his mind before his involuntary blush could colour his cheeks too obviously. He left the library as fast as he could, missing the self-satisfied grin on Riddle's face as she watched him go.

Christmas came around, and in the morning Harry wasn't woken up by Ron's excited shouting; he'd gone home for Christmas, as had Hermione, and it was with a heavy heart that Harry understood the only reason they stayed behind the years earlier was because he did. Harry sighed, shaking away sleep like a dog shaking away water, and felt around blearily for his glasses before putting them on. When he'd found them, he directed his gaze to the end of his beds, wondering if he'd actually get any presents at all this year.

He froze in shock.

There, at the end of his bed, was a package he was intimately familiar with – it was the way his Weasley jumper from last Christmas had been wrapped. He reached forward, slowly, carefully (there was something else under the parcel, but he was too intent on the first package to notice it), and drew the package towards him. Unwrapping it carefully, he found two things – a scarlet Weasley sweater with a Gryffindor lion stitched onto the front, and a card. With trembling hands, he picked up the card and began to read.

_Harry,_

_Ron told us—the entire family—what happened at the end of your second year. We will respect your decision (how can we not?), but remember this: we do _not _blame you for what happened to Ginny. _

_Best wishes,_

_Molly, Arthur, and family_

Harry couldn't help it; he started to cry, small, stifled sobs that slowly shuddered out, almost as if he was forcing them. He'd resigned himself to a Christmas without presents, something he was very much used to, and to be given something so personal by the _Weasleys_… he just couldn't handle it.

When he returned to himself, he was halfway through putting on the jumper with shaking hands when he realised that would defeat the purpose of pushing his friends away. As he made to take it off, he noticed the long, thin package he'd ignored in favour of the sweater. He quickly pulled the sweater off and placed it on the end of the bed, before picking up the other package and slowly tearing it open.

"No _way_," Harry gasped when his hands revealed what lay in the plain brown wrapping.

It was a broomstick. But not just any broomstick, no – emblazoned on the side in shining gold, alongside its serial number, was the word 'Firebolt'. Someone had sent him the _world's best broom_ as a Christmas present. And, more importantly, he could _fly_ again; he'd been using an ancient Comet Two-Sixty in practices lately, and he thought it might be slower than Dudley. Harry raced out of the empty common room, carrying the broom in one hand and covering himself with his Invisibility Cloak as he pelted toward the Quidditch pitch; he knew he wasn't supposed to, for fear of Sirius Black, but this was a _Firebolt_. Even if Black was waiting out there, Harry would be best friends with Malfoy before the man could ever catch him when he had a broom like _this_. Plus he had his Cloak.

Hours later, Harry realised he'd missed the Christmas luncheon only when Riddle walked out onto the pitch and shouted up at him, her voice magically amplified.

"The entire staff are looking for you, Potter. You'd best get inside and back to your common room as fast as you can," she said.

For a moment, he was curious as to why, of all people, _she_ had been the one sent to find him—or why she'd even bothered to go—but then he realised she was, out of all the people remaining in the castle, probably the best-suited except for Dumbledore to take on Black. He laughed at the irony—Voldemort, aged sixteen, being sent out to possibly fight against a Death Eater—even as he landed on the pitch and started walking back inside.

Too late, he realised that with Riddle present, he couldn't possibly use his Invisibility Cloak to sneak back in, unless he wanted her to find about it. He had to get rid of her, somehow.

"I'm fine to walk back myself, y'know," he said as they walked along.

"I'm under _strict instructions_ to stay with you when you're found," she said, her stride never slowing.

"Since when have you cared about what other people tell you to?" he asked.

She hissed angrily, and unconsciously (at least, he thought it was unconscious) slipped into Parsletongue. "_Since other people have started holding executioner's axes over my neck_."

"Just go, I'll be fine. I'm sure you have better things to do," Harry said. Riddle didn't respond, but she did start to walk faster than he was; they reached a junction, and she took the left, rather than the right that would lead her back to the Gryffindor Common Rooms with him.

Harry was so relieved that she'd decided to leave him alone that he didn't pay attention to her footsteps, which stopped as soon as the wall separated them. Had Harry been able to see through walls, he would have seen her sneaking back down her corridor and tapping her wand on her head; to his eyes, she would have shimmered and then vanished from sight.

He hurriedly pulled on his Cloak before he was found by a teacher—he doubted they would approve of his morning excursion—completely unaware that Riddle was watching him, concealed under a Disillusionment Charm. As he finished tucking the Cloak around him and started to walk away, he also missed her smile; it resembled the smile of a child who'd just found a _fascinating_ new toy.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

It seems the Prisoner of Azkaban is stretching out longer than I thought it would. I had intended to go through the entire book in one chapter, but based on my current plan, it will take at least two (though if it takes three, there will be a bleed-in of the earlier parts of the Goblet of Fire in the third).

I normally _never_ update this quickly; consider this a one-off. Most of my future updates will take anywhere between a week and a month, depending on how busy my life gets.

Anyway, next chapter will definitely contain Lupin's POV, as well as my explanation as to how our favourite werewolf discovers Wormtail without taking the Marauder's Map off Harry, since he (Harry) doesn't have it in this universe. That, and the fallout, will actually be the most major canon divergence in this story thus far, and certainly one of the largest in terms of overall plot impact.

And remember - if you have any questions about the events of this chapter, it's practically my job as an author to answer them for you, so ask away!

Until next time,

Magery


	3. Lessons

Harry soon regretted his spontaneous decision to go flying with the Firebolt. After an impressive lecture from his Head of House, Professor McGonagall, and a snide tongue-lashing in passing from Snape, it was promptly confiscated - in his haste to fly the world-class broom, Harry had forgotten to wonder exactly _who_ would send him a broom like that for Christmas, one he would be practically guaranteed to want to try out at the earliest opportunity. Had he done so, he would have eventually realised that the only person who would conceivably have the motive and opportunity (as well as not attach a card) would be Sirius Black; according to McGonagall, he was extremely lucky to be alive, because he had no idea what sort of curses would be on it.

After the humbling half-lecture, half-rant, it seemed Harry still hadn't quite learned to think before he acted, because he then proceeded to ask McGonagall when, if possible, he could get the broom back. The subsequent glare sent him scurrying from the room, cheeks flushing in embarrassment even as he tried to control the shame he was feeling with some of his basic Occlumentic exercises. And so, for the rest of the Christmas break, Harry ensconced himself in the library and studied; with the new term about to begin, and with it his anti-Dementor lessons, he was resuming his research on the creatures and the Patronus Charm itself.

After his first DADA lesson of the new term, Lupin arranged to meet Harry the following Thursday evening, at around eight o'clock. The intervening days passed in a blur of lessons and Arithmancy study (the subject was slowly becoming easier, much to Harry's relief, although he couldn't say the same about Ancient Runes), until Thursday finally came around. When he arrived, Lupin proceeded to instruct him on what the Patronus Charm was—explaining it far more simply than the books Harry had read had managed—and gave him the incantation; after much practice, Harry managed to create a shimmering silver mist, which Lupin said was simply extraordinary for a third-year, considering the spell was technically a NEWT-level spell.

Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—for Harry, Lupin also told him that casting the spell not in the presence of a Dementor was significantly easier than casting it 'in the field', so to speak, but short of taking Harry out of the castle to practice against one of the live Dementors out there, the professor said he had no idea how to remedy that. Personally, if it helped him learn the charm, Harry would gladly go up against a real-life Dementor tomorrow, but when he told Lupin that, the man had looked at him a little oddly, and Harry swore he heard him mutter something like "As bold as James ever was".

The rest of January faded with clockwork regularity into February; the new month brought with it both good and bad news for Harry. The good news was that McGonagall and the rest of the staff had finally finished investigating Harry's Firebolt, and had returned it to him. The bad news, however, was that Harry, even not facing an actual Dementor, still couldn't summon a corporeal Patronus. Lupin was constantly telling him that his progress was already extraordinary, but Harry privately disagreed; he had no doubt that Riddle would have already mastered the spell if they were learning it at his age, and he needed to be_ better_ than she was if he was going to have a hope of beating Voldemort.

The end of February brought with it Harry's second Quidditch match of the year, against Ravenclaw. The Gryffindor team were actually highly confident of victory; the Firebolt in their midst seemed to inspire them all to greater feats, and, after seeing Harry fly with it, Wood was quoted as wondering if "this is how lesser wizards felt watching Merlin using magic". He did, however, warn Harry that even though the Ravenclaw Seeker, a fourth-year by the name of Cho Chang, was flying a Comet Two-Sixty, she was "pretty damn good. Not at your level, Harry, but she's got talent".

The day of the match came; surprisingly enough, Malfoy didn't come up to taunt Harry about the Dementors or anything else, although Harry suspected that was partially because his Occlumency training had made it extraordinarily easy to ignore the blonde-haired Slytherin. And if there was one thing Malfoy lived for, it was the reaction he got to his taunts.

As the team made their way out on to the pitch, Harry couldn't help but notice that Cho Chang was extremely attractive; or, at least, she would have been, had Harry not found his mind comparing her black hair to Riddle's. He wasn't sure what was worse – the fact he was doing it, or the fact the comparison_ favoured_ Riddle. For Merlin's sake, he didn't have the time to even _think_ about how attractive girls were, not with everything he had to do, let alone start thinking of _Riddle_ as anything other than an enemy, even on such a base level; he couldn't deny she was highly good-looking, but he needed to classify that good-looking as the same sort of beauty one would ascribe to a painting, or a particularly pleasant sunrise. Nice to look at, yes, but not something that would draw his attention away from anything else. That was the way it _had_ to be.

As the match progressed, Gryffindor slowly pulled ahead, Lee Jordan spent more time bragging about Harry's broom than he did commentating on the match, and Harry spent his time either searching for the Snitch, or testing the limits of both his Firebolt and Cho's Comet Two-Sixty; he didn't find the elusive golden ball, and in the latter case, it was fairly obvious the opposing Seeker's broom compared to Harry's only in that they were both brooms. In every other criterion, his Firebolt blew her Comet out of the water.

Both Seekers spotted the Snitch a few times, and although the advantage in speed, cornering and general skill lay with Harry, Cho wasn't afraid to play dirty; she'd obviously noticed that Harry was unwilling to try and roughhouse a girl, and she took advantage of that to put him off the Snitch multiple times. As they fought, Ravenclaw started pulling back Gryffindor's lead – they'd gone from eighty points behind to fifty.

Harry spotted the Snitch again, but Cho reacted quickly enough to dive in front of him before he could pursue it; although Wood shouted out for Harry to knock her off her broom, even if he was willing to, the flickering blur of gold had already vanished by the time his Captain called out. Deciding to pay Cho back in kind, Harry waited a few minutes before diving straight down, like he'd seen the Snitch. Cho followed, but just before Harry was about to hit the ground, he pulled up, trusting to the superior manoeuvrability of his Firebolt to pull off a move he couldn't have successfully done with his Nimbus... and saw the Snitch at the Ravenclaw end of the stands.

He accelerated towards it, and below him, having barely managed to avoid crashing into the ground, so did his opposing Seeker, but his Firebolt was just too fast for her to really provide any competition. Then she shouted out a warning – "Dementors!"

Harry glanced involuntarily downward, half-wondering if it was a trick, but it actually wasn't – what looked like three Dementors were moving slowly across the ground from where the Snitch was, toward him. Reacting as quickly as he could, too high on the adrenaline of a Snitch chase to wonder what he wasn't feeling cold or despair, Harry whipped his wand from where he'd stored it in the nape of his neck and shouted "_Expecto Patronum_!".

Something vast and silvery-white, shimmering like fine mist but somehow ethereally solid, burst from the end of his wand, exploding towards the Dementors below. Harry didn't watch to see what happened next – he was too busy chasing the Snitch, reaching out with the hand still carrying his wand to snatch it out of the air. Cho Chang was still fifteen metres behind him when he caught it.

The aftermath of the match revealed both good and bad news for Harry. The bad news was that the Dementors had actually been Malfoy, Goyle, Crabbe and Marcus Flint, the Slytherin Quidditch Captain, in disguise – he still hadn't had a chance to test his Patronus against a real Dementor. The good news, however, was that they lost fifty points from Slytherin and were each assigned detention. That, plus the inevitable post-match celebration, made the day one of Harry's happiest in the year.

As Harry's life was wont to do, of course, all that changed with almost astonishing rapidity. Early in the morning, after a particularly strange dream, Harry—along with the most of Gryffindor house—was woken up by Ron's panicked screaming. It took Professor McGonagall to take control of the situation, and it turned out Ron had a very valid excuse for waking the whole House. After all, seeing the face of Sirius Black staring down at you with a knife would be enough to make _anyone_ scream. Harry was fairly sure the only one in Gryffindor more traumatized than Ron after the night's events was Neville, who was the reason Black had been able to get in to the dormitories in the first place. Needless to say, McGonagall was _not_ pleased.

The fact Harry had presumably only survived Black's attack because Ron had woken up before he'd realised he had the wrong boy also drove home another realisation. For all that he'd said about becoming a better duellist at the start of the year, while he had been working hard and actually managing to beat Hermione in DADA, he hadn't practiced fighting other wizards (or witches). He was defenceless against Black; without magic to level the playing field, since Black didn't seem to have a wand, Harry would be killed almost instantly. And Harry, although he might know spells like the Full Body-Bind, which would take Black out of a fight extremely quickly, didn't know how good his aim or reaction speed would be in a combat situation. Plus, if Black ever _did_ get hold of a wand, he'd be, well, completely and utterly screwed. Not to mention the fact Harry was planning to fight _Voldemort_ one day.

Unfortunately, this led to another realisation. Harry knew the absolute _perfect_ person to teach him how to duel, how to fight and defeat other wizards, and they were a resource he should have tried to tap from the very beginning. The only bad thing about the situation was that her last name was Riddle. Somehow, Harry had to convince a teenaged Voldemort to impart all her skills and knowledge to him, knowing full well he was intending to use those skills to defeat her future self. How on earth was he going to do _that_?

He was in the process of trying to solve the problem, sitting alone in the Gryffindor common room pretending to read a book while really lost in thought, when Seamus came up to him, a hesitant expression on his face.

"Hey, Harry, Dean and I were, uh… wondering something," he said, shooting a glance to his friend in the corner and another toward where Ron and Hermione were sitting, chatting quietly to one another. _I was wondering when somebody would bring that up_.

"What was it?" Harry asked; he might have a rough guess on the subject, but he wasn't entirely sure. For all he knew, they could be asking to have a ride on his Firebolt.

"Why, uh… why don't you hang around with Ron and Hermione anymore? You guys used to be inseparable," Seamus said; he looked half-curious, half-worried, obviously wanting to know the answer but unsure exactly what situation he might have stumbled in to. Harry swore he almost breathed a sigh of relief when he answered the boy's question without exploding into a rage.

"We just… we just can't be friends anymore. It's complicated, and, well, personal," Harry replied. Seamus must have recognized the dismissal inherent in Harry's response, because with a jerky nod he walked back over to where Dean was sitting. Harry returned his attention to pretending to be reading while he continued attempting to figure out just how to convince Riddle to train him.

A few hours later, he finally came up with what he thought could be an answer, although he was partially disgusted with himself for how Slytherin it was. That said, he was fairly sure he'd have to start thinking like that more often, because he couldn't beat Voldemort without understanding how she thought.

* * *

She was sitting at the back of the library, flicking through a book on Charms when Potter found her. When he came in, he was clearly searching for something or someone; his gaze darted back and forth until it finally locked on her, and she realised he was looking for _her_. He walked up, and, mindful of the fact it didn't serve her purposes for anyone else to notice her yet, she drew her wand and cast a Notice-Me-Not charm, one that would briefly override Dumbledore's and hide _both_ of them from the other students.

"Is there somewhere we can talk privately? Where nobody else will be able to find us?" _Well, now that's an intriguing question. What does the boy want?_

"Maybe," she replied, allowing a hint of condescension into her tone. "Why do you ask?"

"There's something I'd like to ask you," he replied, looking oddly hesitant.

"I think you're a little too young for me," she said, relishing the crimson flush her remark brought to his cheeks even through his admittedly-impressive Occlumentic control. She'd never actually had any interest in the opposite sex (or any sort of sex, really), but she knew exactly how the game was played. She might despise how men found her attractive, might wish that when eyes trailed her around the room, they were watching her because they respected her, or feared her, and not because they _wanted_ her, but she was never one to waste the weapons life had given her. And as far as she was concerned, that's all her looks were – just another way to manipulate other people.

"Shut up," he muttered, before rallying his self-control; she could almost see his face shut down, restoring itself to the calm equilibrium of one practicing Occlumency. "Are you going to answer the question or not?"

She deliberated for a moment – while she was intensely interested in exactly _what_ the private business Potter wanted to discuss with her was, would it be worth revealing the existence of the Come-and-Go Room? Eventually, she decided to take the risk; when you were trying to manipulate someone, it was important to build up trust, and the Come-and-Go Room was the sort of revelation that would leave Potter very much indebted to her.

"Come with me," she commanded, standing up slowly, stretching the kinks out of her neck and back; impressively, this time Potter's eyes never moved from her face. He had more self-control at thirteen than some of the seventh-year Slytherins had when she was back in fifth-year, and that was _with_ the occasional glance he'd sent her way over the course of their… acquaintanceship.

He followed her through the castle as she made her way up to the seventh floor; when she reached the tapestry of Barnabus the Barmy, she paced back and forth in front of it, demanding a room just like the Slytherin common room. Potter was watching her, obviously confused, his confusion shifting to shock and surprise when a door appeared and she opened it, gesturing him to follow her into the room.

"Where the hell are we?" he asked as he stepped inside and took one of the two seats she'd told the Room to give her.

"The Come and Go Room," she said, answering and not answering his question at the same time. "Now, what did you want to ask me, Potter?"

He took a deep breath, and replied. "I want you to teach me how to fight. How to duel."

_Well, that was… unexpected. But very, very welcome._

"And _why_ would I do that? I've never heard a more stupid idea in my life," she said. Just because he was acting exactly the way she wanted him to didn't mean she had to let him _know_ that; in her experience, people usually didn't go along with her plans if they knew what they were.

"Look, Riddle, just hear me out, okay?" he said, flustered. _Excellent_.

"I'm listening," she said, leaning back in her chair with an air of casual boredom.

"I don't know the exact wordings of the Vows Dumbledore has made you take, but I'm fairly sure I can guess the gist of them; you can't hurt me, can't hurt Dumbledore, can't aid Voldemort, anything like that. If you could, I have no doubt you would have done something by now, but you haven't, have you?"

She supressed the flash of anger at a _child_ reminding her how trapped she was, schooling her features into a cool, icy mask as he continued to speak, voice growing stronger, more confident and more assured that he had been moments earlier.

"And then you've been teaching me Occlumency, which doesn't make any sense; surely you could just stop Legilimizing me if you didn't want to read my thoughts. I didn't understand that for a while, but I sat down and started thinking about it a few days ago, and I think I know why you're doing it.

You might be bound, but you're still Tom Marvolo Riddle. You still want power, still want to be dominant over everyone, still want to show everyone your strength and have them fear it. It's why you ended up becoming Voldemort. But you can't _do_ that anymore – you're trapped, stuck, unable to side with your future self. If you try to aid the Dark, you'll die.

But if you helped _me_, on the other hand, fought alongside Dumbledore and me and everyone else who wants to defeat Voldemort, well… you're an extraordinarily competent and powerful witch. You'd be respected by your allies, feared by your enemies, and the general population would be in awe of you, almost like you've always wanted. And then, if we won, well… there's nothing stopping you from becoming Minister for Magic or something like that and ruling the country once Voldemort is dead – I certainly wouldn't want the job.

Otherwise, you're stuck here in Hogwarts, Dumbledore's prisoner, with nothing to do except attend classes in a castle full of people you can't talk to. I suspect you're already bored out of your mind. Plus, if you help me, I suspect Dumbledore might even start rewarding you for 'good behaviour'. And I'm sure you can see the benefits of being given a little more freedom."

Potter looked at her expectantly, obviously wondering what impact his little speech had on her. On the outside, her face betrayed nothing, but on the inside her thoughts were a chaotic mess of exultant joy, unexpected admiration and tempestuous anger. His pitch mirrored her own reasons for wanting to aid him almost word-for-word, with the exception that clearly all he knew was that Unbreakable Vows bound her to do something, and not that they could be broken if the Vowee—Dumbledore—died. And for a _Gryffindor_ to think along the same lines as her showed her he was firmly in touch with a Slytherin side he really shouldn't have; she couldn't deny that was rather impressive.

Of course, that didn't mean she had to like being made to do something; she _hated_ being backed into a corner, even if it was a corner she knew she _had_ to be in. She was furious, at Dumbledore far more than Potter, for forcing her into the situation she found herself in. She was _not_ somebody's tool. Other people were _hers_.

Realising Potter was still waiting for her answer, she made a great show of sighing reluctantly before replying.

"Fine, I'll do it," she said, watching the smile break over his face – he still wasn't fully in control of himself, and if he wanted to get anywhere in life (not that _she_ really wanted him to, of course) he'd need to change that. "But I don't have time to deal with incompetence, and you'd better pay attention to everything I teach you because I will _not_ repeat any of it."

After all, it might be part of her plan to draw him into her net, but that didn't mean she particularly enjoyed teaching, and she'd probably murder him—and thus herself—if he turned out to be as abysmal at magic as he was when she'd started teaching him Occlumency eight months ago.

"So, when do we start?" he asked, the excitable eagerness of the teenaged boy he truly was shining through.

"Tomorrow. You _will_ be here, outside this room, at seven o'clock, and at the same time every night thereafter. And you had better be a good student, or I'm calling this whole thing off regardless."

With that, she stood up; Potter was still seated, and as a result of their respective positions, his eyes _did_ leave her face for a little while before he stood up. Her smile was hidden from him as she walked away, out the door; she might hate the fact he was noticing her as a woman, but it was all part of the plan. She didn't want to seduce him—that was beneath her—but she had been very, very good at abusing unrequited sentiment during her previous years at Hogwarts.

* * *

The day after Riddle agreed to train him, Harry found himself in the Headmaster's office; Professor McGonagall had informed him after his Transfiguration lesson that Dumbledore wanted to see him. While he was giving the gargoyles the password (apparently, the Headmaster's new passing fancy were Jaffers) and making his way up the stairs, he'd been wondering what the Headmaster wanted, and concluded it was probably something to do with his meeting with Riddle. Hence the fact he was highly nervous.

"Ah, Harry, welcome," Dumbledore said, seated in his chair like it was an emperor's throne. "I would offer you a lemon drop, but I appear to have run out. Now, I suspect you are wondering why you are here?"

"Is it something to do with my meeting with Riddle yesterday, Headmaster?" Harry asked with a trace of nervousness.

Dumbledore chuckled. "Not entirely, Harry. I do confess to being rather interested in what you two discussed, especially as the room you entered is one I was not entirely sure existed; however, I am also curious as to the state and strength of your Occlumency shields. I would like, with your permission, to pit myself against you; Miss Riddle may be talented, but she is not quite at my level, if I do say so myself."

Harry blinked. _Well, that was unexpected._ "Would you like to know what Riddle and I were doing now, sir, or test my shields first?"

"The former, I think," Dumbledore replied, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't think he was quite mentally ready to try and hold out _Albus Dumbledore_ without some time to prepare. About five minutes later, Harry finished his explanation with a hint of worry in his tone; he didn't know what Dumbledore would think of his reasoning – he was supposed to be a Gryffindor, not manipulate people like a Slytherin.

To his surprise, Dumbledore merely looked thoughtful. "The Come and Go Room, you say? Interesting; that would explain a great many things. As for your training, Harry, do not fear – I see no reason why it should not go ahead. Just promise me you will not become too absorbed in it. You are still a child, and you should not waste your childhood; it is one of the greatest gifts you will ever receive."

"I can't promise that, sir," Harry replied, surprisingly himself with his boldness. "I won't see another Ginny Weasley lose _their_ childhood because I'm not strong enough to defeat Voldemort. Of all the people in the world, who am _I_ not to makes sacrifices in order to defeat the monster?"

Silence fell, and Harry swore he saw something like shock pass over Dumbledore's features, but the serene visage of the Headmaster of Hogwarts returned so rapidly Harry wasn't entirely sure if he'd seen anything. Dumbledore looked at him, staring into his eyes; Harry knew he wasn't using Legilimency, but it still felt like Dumbledore was looking straight through him. The silence stretched out; it felt heavy, weighed down with vast import, like the fate of the world was hanging in the balance and the slightest noise could send it toppling over the edge. Harry didn't know why, but with the way Dumbledore was looking at him and the way the world seemed to have compressed to the two of them, he felt as if what he thought he'd said and what Dumbledore had heard were two very different things. It was like the cartoons he'd sometimes chanced to see on Dudley's TV when he was a child, left alone in the house - somebody said something is passing, and suddenly the hero had a flash of inspiration to solve whatever problem they were currently facing based on that chance remark.

Eventually, the Headmaster sighed. "You are wise beyond your years, Harry." He didn't say anything more, and Harry was left wondering why his words seemed so oddly regretful, like the implicit permission he was giving was costing him beyond measure. The silence extended a moment longer, and then Dumbledore resumed speaking. "Now, I believe I mentioned testing your Occlumency shields earlier?"

Harry nodded, and spoke. "Could I have a few minutes to prepare myself, sir?" He was used to duelling Riddle; she was familiar, and he'd gotten over his nerves fairly early on. Dumbledore? Dumbledore was an _entirely _different matter.

"Of course, Harry," the Headmaster said, and leant back in his chair.

Harry started clearing his mind (normally he wasn't so ritualistic, but against Dumbledore he felt safer following the full routine); he'd found the best way to do that was to focus on a single image in his mind, and almost _pour_ his attention to it. Riddle apparently did something similar, from their brief conversation on the subject. In Harry's case, he imagined a flame, burning away his unnecessary thoughts and feelings and leaving behind only a void of nothingness. Once his mind was clear—the feeling was somewhat surreal, knowing he was thinking, but thinking only about the concept of nothing—he proceeded to try and strengthen his shields with everything he had, shoring them up, imagining that he was building a shield of pure power around his mind, something that nobody could _ever_ penetrate.

He knew, of course, that he was nowhere near that level, but he'd found that Occlumency depended somewhat on whether or not you _believed_ that your defences were impregnable as you could conceivably make them. Finally, after about five minutes spent working on clearing his mind and strengthening his shields, he looked back up at the Headmaster.

"I'm ready, sir," he said, and immediately felt the touch of Dumbledore's Legilimency.

If Harry had thought Snape's touch was subtle, compared to Dumbledore's the man's more resembled a trumpeting elephant riding a motorbike and shooting off fireworks. If he hadn't been expecting it, Harry doubted that he would have even _noticed_ Dumbledore was using Legilimency on him. The Headmaster's probes were soft, delicate, brushing against his shields as lightly as a summer breeze. But there was a strength about them, even as they quested across the surface of his mind, looking for a weakness in Harry's defences, a strength Harry felt only when Dumbledore finally struck.

One moment the fingers of Dumbledore's Legilimency were still almost-caressing the outside of his shields, the next Harry was completely overwhelmed as a tsunami of elemental fury crashed through his defences in a hundred places at once; his shields literally shattered, breaking into a thousand pieces like they were made of nothing more than fragile glass. Dumbledore withdrew the moment he gained access, but Harry took longer to recover – for all Riddle's casual brutality, even she couldn't compare to the raw _power_ behind Dumbledore's Legilimency.

When he felt coherent enough to maintain conversation, he focused back on Dumbledore, noticing the Headmaster's apologetic expression.

"Forgive me, Harry; I did not mean to be so rough with you, but it has been a while since I actively practiced Legilimency against someone with such impressive shielding," Dumbledore said.

"What do you mean, impressive shielding, sir?" Harry asked – while Dumbledore may have waited almost two minutes before striking, when he actively decided to break through Harry's defences, he'd done it in less than a second.

"You noticed that I spent some time examining your defences before I broke them? I was searching for some sort of weakness, some section that was inherently flawed, as there usually is in those who have not fully mastered Occlumency. What makes your shields impressive, Harry, is that they do not _have_ weaknesses like that. Your 'domes' perfectly enclose your mind in a series of spheres; no one part is weaker than any other. As such, I had to resort to brute force to shatter them.

You must have be rather devoted to practicing your Occlumency to achieve such a level of competence in such a short time, Harry."

"You still broke them far too easily though, sir. When you actually decided to strike, it was as if they weren't even there," Harry replied, slightly downcast.

"That I did. But remember, Harry, I am well over a century more experienced than you are, and my magic has fully matured. There are very few in this world who can keep me out of their minds. So take heart – for someone with less than a year's worth of Occlumency training, your defences are extraordinary. I have no doubt that when you are older, even I may come into some difficulty trying to break into your mind.

And do not forget this – you do not need to keep Voldemort, or anyone else, out of your mind forever – only long enough for you to break eye contact."

Harry nodded slowly, somewhat heartened by Dumbledore's words, and then rose from his seat, recognizing the dismissal inherent in the Headmaster's words.

* * *

Later that day, Harry found himself in the Come-and-Go Room; rather than resembling what he presumed was part of the Slytherin dungeons, it looked more like a classroom with all of the desks removed, albeit somewhat larger. Harry stood at one end, where he'd been directed, and Riddle at the other. Without preamble, she spoke.

"The first rule of duelling is one so simple even _you_ should be able to understand it. _Don't get hit_. Defence is your most important weapon; if your opponent can't touch you, they can't win. That said, never _fight_ defensively; always be on the front foot, and always attack. Of course, to do that, you need to be able to defend yourself well enough so that you don't have to focus on it and _can_ focus on attacking."

She paused slightly before continuing, letting her words sink in.

"So, today, you're going to show me your Shield Charm."

Harry blinked. "What's a shield charm? How do you cast one?"

Riddle's features twisted into a mixture of disdain and fury. "Are you telling me you came to me for duelling practice and you _don't even know what a Shield Charm is_?" she hissed before spinning on her heels and pacing back and forth, muttering under her breath and occasionally making half-movements with her wand, like she wanted to curse something. Violently.

Eventually, she seemed to calm herself down, because she turned back to Harry and spoke one word, slashing her wand from her hip to her shoulder like she was parrying a sword.

"_Protego_!"

Something bloomed out of her wand, a rippling mixture of blue and silver mist, like moonlight glinting off ocean spray; it solidified and expanded in an instant, creating an ethereal barrier between him and Riddle.

"This is a basic Shield Charm," she said with the air of one trying terribly hard to be patient and failing miserably. "Cast something at it."

Harry drew his wand and hurled a Full Body-Bind at the shield; when the spell struck, it rebounded off, deflected to one side. The shield shimmered when his curse hit it, seeming for a moment just slightly more solid than before, but the impression quickly faded. Harry raised an eyebrow; now _here_ was a useful spell if he'd ever seen one. Riddle made a short, sharp gesture with her wand, and the shield faded.

"Do you remember the incantation?" she asked.

"_Protego_, wasn't it?" he replied.

She nodded, and then looked at him expectantly. It took Harry a few moments to realise what she wanted.

"You want me to try and cast it? Now? I don't even remember the wand movement correctly!" he said incredulously.

Riddle sighed exasperatedly, before once again whipping her wand from hip to shoulder; she didn't speak the incantation, but nonetheless the same shield bloomed in between them before fading. Harry paid careful attention to the way her wand moved, and realised his brief, half-remembered impression from earlier was exactly correct - it did look exactly like she was trying to parry a sword. He wondered briefly why that was, before realising the Shield Charm had probably been created a long time ago, when swords were very much in vogue - it was very difficult to model blocking with a shield with a wand, but blocking with a _sword_ on the other hand...

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he decided to attempt casting the spell.

"_Protego_!" he cried, voice almost breaking, and slashed his wand in a wide arc across the front of his body just like Riddle had.

Nothing happened.

"You need to _focus_ on it," Riddle said. "You need to will the shield into existence. Magic is about intent; are you so incompetent you don't even know _that_?"

"I killed your Basilisk without knowing that," Harry shot back. "You're pretty much four years older than I am, and you ended up becoming _Voldemort_. Cut me some slack, would you?"_  
_

Still furious, he slashed his wand again across his body, imagining for a brief second he was slicing Voldemort herself from hip to shoulder.

"_Protego!_"

The shield bloomed out of the end of his wand, an intangible mist quickly solidifying into an impressive barrier between the two of them. Harry looked at it for a second, a mixture of shock and fury, before his anger began to die as success flushed through his body. As it did, the shield began to fade as well; one moment it was there, every bit as solid as Riddle's had been, but the next, as his rage cooled, it began to almost fall apart, drifting into the ether in a shimmer of silvery-blue sparks. He looked at the empty space it had occupied, confused; as he did, he missed Riddle's slow, self-satisfied smile.

"Why'd it disappear?" Harry asked, more to himself than anyone else.

"Because you weren't focusing on it any more," Riddle answered nonetheless. "Rage is a powerful motivator - your anger was fueling the spell, but then you got distracted and lost it. Try again."

Harry wasn't particularly sure he liked the sound of anger fueling his magic; he was well aware of what Riddle was and what she became (would become?), and just because he was asking her to teach him didn't mean he wasn't going to be wary of what she said in the process. With that in mind, he tamped down on any of his residual anger—Occlumency training made the process much easier than it otherwise would have been—and focused on the spell itself, willing it into existence, demanding his magic to create the shield even as he whipped his wand through the air and shouted the words.

"_Protego_!"

A sparkling mist erupted before Harry; it reminded him of his attempts to cast the Patronus Charm. He tried to pour more magic into it—a task made difficult by the fact he didn't actually know exactly _how_ to do that—but nothing happened - the incomplete shield remained floating in the air before him like a light winter fog. Giving the task up as lost, Harry stopped focusing, and the shield vanished.

"Again!" Riddle snapped.

And so, Harry spent the next two hours casting and re-casting the Shield Charm; by the end of the lesson, he was tired and his very core ached, like he'd been out running all day, but even that couldn't dim his sense of achievement - he'd managed to occasionally cast a full _Protego _without relying on anger to fuel it, although most of the time he still could only create the Patronus-esque mist that had marked his third attempt.

Over the next week, Harry found himself looking forward to Riddle's lessons despite himself; she was blunt, rude, dismissive and generally put him in mind of a female Snape (now there was a mental image he could do without), but she was a hell of a lot better teacher than Snape ever was. The Shield Charm was a fourth and fifth-year spell, but under her instruction, he'd mastered it in four days. Well, if by mastered he meant 'was able to cast it consistently'. His shield still didn't have very much power behind it, unfortunately; Riddle could usually break it with a single spell, even a simple Stinging Hex.

Amusingly, that was perhaps the only time where he thought he was incompetent and Riddle thought it was a circumstance beyond his control, rather than the usual other way around. She said that he was far too young to have come anywhere near his magical maturity; she was four years older, and he couldn't really expect to be able to hold off her spells for at least another year - unless he fueled his spells with anger, of course. The one other time she'd actually pissed him off enough to cast a shield in anger, her first spell—and the one after it—had bounced off much in the same way his Full Body-Bind had bounced off her shield the first time he'd seen the spell cast.

Unfortunately, not two weeks after he'd started being able to cast the Shield Charm consistently—they'd moved on since then into the realms of actually dodging your opponent's attacks, which made for a very painful process for Harry because Riddle was preternaturally accurate—disaster struck. Harry had just stepped out of the Come-And-Go Room when a voice hailed him, a voice he recognized.

"Hello, Harry," said Fred (or was it George?) Weasley, from where he stood against the opposite side of the corridor next to his twin brother. Both had their wands out, although they weren't raised, and in the other twin's hands was an oddly-folded piece of paper. "Fancy seeing you here. Where's Riddle?"

As if on cue, the door behind Harry opened again, and Riddle stepped out; the moment she did, both Fred and George raised their wands. In a blur of movement so fast Harry wasn't even sure if her arm had passed through the intervening space, Riddle's own wand was suddenly leveled straight back at them, and Harry was suddenly trapped in between her and the twins; the tension in the hallway was so great Harry was surprised the walls weren't shaking.

What the _hell_ was he supposed to do now?

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I'm sorry, I lied about both the explanation for Riddle getting back her wand, and about Lupin appearing. I don't have room for the former quite yet, and for the latter, I was on the train up to university when I suddenly had an idea that made the scenes I'd planned with Lupin obsolete and, quite frankly, nowhere near as awesome. He will appear next chapter, if not as a POV then at the very least in a fair few important scenes. Sirius and Pettigrew's times are coming, don't worry!

The Prison of Azkaban _will_ be ending next chapter, which will also include the beginning of The Goblet of Fire.

Until next time,

Magery


End file.
